


A Tip of the Scales

by Jimena



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/F, but there will be eventual pharmercy, emphasis on the sort of, sort of a Western au, there's some steampunk and fantasy thrown in there for good measure, this is more of a gen fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-13
Updated: 2018-03-12
Packaged: 2018-12-01 15:18:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11489097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jimena/pseuds/Jimena
Summary: Ranger Fareeha Amari has been tasked with investigating reports of vigilante justice in the border regions, but the frontier is a dangerous place for those caught unawares, full of bandits, and beasts, and lurking shadows. She'll need all her wits about her and the help of new friends and allies just to survive when her investigation uncovers a much larger threat.





	1. Bad Omens

She knew that sign had been a bad omen.

They were only a quarter-mile past a faded, hand-painted sign that read “Deadhorse, 5 miles” when Fareeha’s horse came up lame.

“Quite the pair we make, eh?” she murmured to him as she ran her one good hand over his leg before straightening with a wince as the motion pulled on the makeshift sling holding her dislocated arm in place against her chest.

“Well, that’s a right shame, innit, mate.”

Fareeha scowled as she tilted her hat back to look up at the prisoner tied to the saddle.

Jamison Fawkes, notorious bank robber, self-proclaimed ‘freedom fighter,’ and her current personal headache, grinned down at her. “Me and Bessie here were just starting to get along like good ol’ pals.” He thumped his peg leg against the horse’s side, eliciting a sharp snort.

“Easy, Cloud,” Fareeha warned, keeping a tight grip on the reins as the painted blue roan laid his ears back and looked like he was considering trying to buck the annoying menace off, ropes keeping the man on his back be damned. “Just take it easy.” The horse shook his head irritably, bridle jingling, but he eventually subsided under her touch.

“I wouldn’t do that,” she said once she was sure he wasn’t about to try anything, though she kept a close eye on him just in case. “He’s killed men before.”

If anything, that prospect seemed to impress the bank robber. “Ooooh, really?”

“Mmhmm.” Fareeha nodded, chewing her lip as she surveyed their surroundings and contemplated their limited options. Walking the miles to town as injured as she was with a one-legged bandit in tow was an unappealing thought, but she wasn’t willing to risk her horse. She sighed and settled her hat more firmly on her head. There was nothing for it but to get started.

She turned back, unsheathing the long knife at her hip. “We’re walking from here.” She brandished the weapon, making sure she had the man’s attention. “You run, this goes in your back, understand, Mr. Fawkes?”

The man let out a bark of laughter. “Mr. Fawkes? Who d’ya think I am, the bloomin’ governor?” He shook his head as he held out his hands. “The name’s Jamie, Junkrat to my friends.” He winked.

“We’re not friends,” Fareeha said, stone-faced, as she cut through his bonds.

Jamie shrugged as his clockwork arm whirred to life with the telltale spark of arcane energy and he rubbed the feeling back into his flesh and blood wrist. “Course we ain’t, Ranger. Associatin’ with folks like you is bad for the reputation, you know? Hard gettin’ a decent gig blowin’ up buildings and the occasional train if folks think yer on the the straight and narrow.”

“Blowing things up is what got us into this mess in the first place,” Fareeha pointed out, reflexively scratching at the bandage covering the nasty burn crawling up her neck. “You think I don’t have more important things to do than drag your sorry ass to the nearest town with a proper jail cell?”

Jamie pouted. “Aww, and here I thought you were starting to like me, Ranger.” He drummed the fingers of his clockwork hand against the saddle’s pommel. “Now you’ve gone and hurt my feelings.”

“All three of them, I’m sure,” Fareeha retorted. “Get down.”

The bank robber shrugged good-naturedly and hopped down, landing easily despite his peg leg and causing Fareeha to scowl. Of course _he_ hadn’t been injured in the blast that took out his hideout, walking away with merely a scratch on the cheek, the whiff of singed hair, and a “That was a good one, wasn’t it, mate?”.

“Out front,” she ordered, wrapping Cloud’s reins loosely through her belt, keeping her one good hand free and her knife loose in its sheath in case of trouble. She felt uncomfortably exposed without the familiar weight of her rifle in her hands. Not that it would do her much good even if she had the use of both hands. The cracked barrel and shattered stock, another casualty of Fawkes’ penchant for explosives, made her primary weapon all but useless as anything more than a blunt instrument.

“Aye, mon capitan!” Fawkes snapped to attention, raising his mechanical arm in a parody of a salute before marching off in the direction of town, whistling a jaunty tune for good measure.

Fareeha pinched the bridge of her nose to stave off the impending headache as she tugged Cloud’s reins and followed behind. It was going to be a long walk.

 

+

 

Fareeha yawned as they entered town, ears popping as the day’s travels caught up with her. Even Fawkes seemed subdued. He had long since stopped whistling, a fact for which Fareeha was extremely grateful, and his peg leg dragged along with each step.

Fareeha winced at the sight they must make as they turned down main street and the few townsfolk out and about turned to stare at the one-legged bandit leading a stumbling, bandaged ranger leading a grumpy, limping horse. She shook her head and sighed. As first impressions went it certainly wasn’t her best.

“Can I help you?” a polite voice said from behind them.

Fareeha turned, blinked, looked up, and blinked again. She must be more out of it than she thought because she could swear there was a massive gorilla with a sheriff’s badge on his chest peering down at her through a tiny pair of spectacles perched precariously on his nose.

“I said, can I help you?” the gorilla repeated, a bit more firmly. He glanced down, spotting the badge pinned to her own jacket, and straightened a bit. “Ranger.”

Fareeha shook her head slightly, already feeling her headache coming back; this day just kept getting better and better. But since everyone else seemed to take the sight of a talking 500 lb. ape in stride, so would she.

She straightened to her full height, ignoring her bruised and battered body’s protestation at the movement, and saluted hand over heart. “Ranger Pharah, Helix Division of the Queen’s Reach, requesting prisoner transfer of one Jamison Fawkes, bank robber and anarchist.” She gestured behind her.

“Always thought ‘freedom fighter’ had a better ring to it, myself,” Fawkes responded with a grin and a wave for the gorilla’s benefit

“I...see,” the gorilla said as Fareeha fought the urge to roll her eyes.

“Anarchist,” she repeated. “And you are?” she prompted, as the gorilla continued to gaze at them with a befuddled expression.

“Oh, right! Where are my manners?” He placed his own hand over his heart. “I am Sheriff Winston, of uhhh Deadhorse, the town that you are currently uhhh in.” He coughed lightly and scratched his head. “We don’t get many of your kind, I mean Rangers, through here, so I’m unaware of the proper procedure―”

There was a bright flash of blue light, and suddenly there was a young woman with short brown hair and a cocky grin leaning companionably up against the sheriff as she fired off a quick salute of her own.

“Deputy Lena Oxton at your service” she rattled off. “What my superior’s trying to say is that we’d be happy to get you all squared away if you’d be kind enough to follow us back to the office, ain’t that right, boss?” she directed up for the sheriff’s benefit with a pointed look at the small crowd of curious bystanders that had begun to congregate.

“Err, right, of course,” the sheriff responded. He cleared his throat and rose to an impressive height. “Nothing to see here, folks!” he proclaimed. “Go on about your business now and let us handle ours.”

There were a few muttered protests, but the small crowd dispersed easily. Fareeha raised one eyebrow, reluctantly impressed.

“Not many people who want to tangle with a gorilla, I’ll tell you that.” Fareeha nearly jumped as Deputy Oxton was suddenly at her side. “Specially if he’s miffed.” She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Word of advice? Don’t touch his stash of peanut butter.”

“You’re a Blinker,” Fareeha said, feeling a bit dazed. She hadn’t thought there were many left, not after the war and the proclamation after. To find one out here of all places...

Oxton’s grin took on a hard edge as her hands strayed toward the twin revolvers at her side. “And you’re a Ranger. That gonna be an issue?”

Fareeha felt the sheriff’s attention shift to her as well, despite his clearing out the few lingering stragglers. She grimaced, holding her good hand up and trying to appear non-threatening. “I’m not here to cause problems.” She chuckled darkly, not hiding her wince at the motion. “Not even sure I could at this point.”

Some of the tension leaked out of the deputy’s frame. “Can see that.” She nodded to Fareeha’s bandaged arm. “Doesn’t that hurt?”

“Immensely,” Fareeha responded shortly, “so if we could get down to business?”

The deputy had the good grace to look a bit chagrined. “Right, sorry ‘bout that. Sure you don’t want to see a doctor first? We’ve got a pretty good one in town; get you fixed up right quick. We can take custody of the prisoner, get your paperwork all squared away in the meantime.”

Fareeha shook her head lightly, careful of the bandages on her neck. “I’d rather see this through to the end in person if you don’t mind.”

Oxton shrugged. “Suit yourself. Doc ain’t gonna be too happy you put it off though, just warning you.”

“I’ll take my chances.”

The deputy shook her head with a frown but gestured for them to follow. She turned on her heel, setting off down the street.

Fareeha nudged Fawkes with her boot where he’d collapsed into a sitting position in the dirt after losing interest in the conversation, head propped up on his mechanical hand. “On your feet.”

“Are all Rangers as heartless as you are?” he complained. “My leg ain’t exactly made for hikin’ about, ya know. Can’t you let a fellow rest in peace?”

“You can rest in a cell,” Fareeha answered, sympathy in short supply as her whole body ached. She nudged him again. “Up.”

“Winston was right about not gettin’ a lot of your sort out here,” Oxton said over her shoulder as Fawkes got to his feet muttering imprecations under his breath. ”Seen plenty of Rangers back east and durin’ the war of course. Can’t say I’ve seen a one since I came out here though.”

“You’re from back east?” Fareeha asked, forestalling the questions inherent in the deputy’s seemingly innocuous chatter.

“King’s Row, born and bred.” There was a note of pride in her voice. “Was a copper for a couple a good years there after the Treaty.” She shrugged one shoulder. “Then there was an, uh, incident, and special dispensation or not, the city was gettin’ to be a bit of an unfriendly place for persons of the magical persuasion, if you catch my drift, and Winston wrote me he’d just been elected sheriff of a nice little town out in the border regions, so I saved everyone a big old headache, handed in my resignation, packed my bags, and was on the 4 o’clock train out here.” She spun around, indicating the obvious lack of a train station in town. “Figuratively speaking, of course.”

“I did not write you that I had been ‘elected sheriff of a nice little town,’” Winston corrected, adjusting his spectacles absently as he came up behind them. “I believe it was more along the lines of ‘You’ve dealt with criminals before. What do you do when the local gang in charge decides it’d be a hilarious joke to make a monkey sheriff?’”

Oxton waved a hand as they passed the saloon. “So I fudged a couple of details. Joke’s on them though. We kicked the gang out and cleaned up the town so’s folks actually like livin’ here. Why look at us, we’re practically respectable!”

There was a crash of glass, and Fareeha instinctively ducked as a man in a garish serape went flying through the air from the direction of the saloon to land sprawled in the dirt nearly at Cloud’s feet.

There was a long sigh from the sheriff behind her as Fareeha quickly tugged Cloud back so the man wasn’t trampled. “We’re _mostly_ respectable,” Winston muttered.

“Can I at least get m’ hat?” the man on the ground called out, raising one hand. A moment later a cowboy hat came sailing out of the building, landing in the street. “Much obliged.”

“You owe me a new window, McCree!” a woman’s voice called from inside the saloon. She sounded more annoyed than genuinely angry. “And you’re not allowed back ‘til you’ve paid off your tab either!”

“Aw, now you’re just bein’ cruel,” the man groused. He opened one bleary eye and looked up, gaze moving across each member of their motley procession before focusing on Fareeha. He frowned. “Do I know you?” he asked. “Somethin’ about you seems mighty familiar.”

“No,” Fareeha answered, quite certain of that fact.

“Huh.” The man reached one hand up to scratch his chin. “Ya sure about that? That tattoo...coulda swore I’ve seen it before…” He looked up as a shadow crossed his face. “Why, howdy, Sheriff. Fancy meetin’ you here.”

Winston picked the man up bodily in one hand and set him, swaying, on his feet. “Really, Jesse? Another window?”

“‘S’not my fault,” Jesse replied, brushing himself off. “She’s a lot bigger’n me.” He dug around in his pocket for a moment, producing a slightly squashed cigar. With one smooth motion, he tossed his serape out of the way and snapped the fingers of his left hand. Orange sparks travelled up his now revealed metal arm to coalesce into a flame at the tip of his finger which he used to light his cigar.

“Then do not pick fights with customers, yes?” A large woman with hair a shade of pink that most _definitely_ could not have been obtained by nonmagical means stuck her head out of the shattered window. “Is not good for business or health.”

Fareeha could feel a massive headache building. She cleared her throat, and all eyes turned to her. “I realize the laws against magic and witchcraft hold little sway out here and that I said I wouldn’t make an issue of it, but I _am_ a Ranger,”―she tapped the silver badge on her chest―”an agent of the law and a representative of the Queen herself. I can’t keep ignoring blatant violations.”

McCree’s stance took on a more wary air as the pink-haired woman retreated back into the saloon with a one-armed shrug. “Ranger, huh?” He blew out a lungful of smoke. “Don’t see many of your kind in the border regions.”

“So I’ve been told,” Fareeha replied evenly, “and yet here I am with multiple injuries, a lame horse, and a prisoner that I would very much like to transfer custody of at some point today.”

“Of course, Ranger,” Winston said, chagrined. “My apologies. Right this way.” He patted McCree on the shoulder as he passed. “Do try to stay out of trouble, Jesse.”

“I always _try_ ,” the man muttered, stepping aside so they could pass. “It just likes to follow me around.”

A flash of light and the deputy was standing before McCree holding his hat. “That’s a nasty cut you got there,” she pointed out, motioning to his arm. “Should probably see the doc about it, don’t ya think?”

“Yeah,” McCree said, expression unreadable as he placed his hat on top his head. “Might just do that.”

Lena nodded. “You might let her know the Ranger will stop in later too.”

Jesse tipped his hat in acknowledgement, and Lena disappeared only to reappear at Fareeha’s side down the street, causing Fawkes to jump a good foot in the air.

Fareeha just sighed. “Will you please stop doing that?”

“You don’t even flinch,” Oxton said, tone incredulous. She turned to Fawkes. “I blink up beside her and she doesn’t so much as twitch.”

“Don’t look at me,” Fawkes said with a shrug. “I think it’s weird too.” A pensive expression crossed his face. “Then again, she managed to track me down and arrest me even after gettin’ blasted through a wall. Maybe they just make Rangers out of sterner stuff than us regular folk.”

“I’m right here,” Fareeha said crossly.

“Lena, stop antagonizing the Ranger,” Winston ordered with an air of long-suffering. He waved Fareeha toward a hitching post in front of a building riddled with bullet holes and a hand-lettered sign that read _Sheriff_ swinging crookedly in the breeze.

“I’m not antagonizing her,” Lena protested. She blinked into the office, voice muffled as she continued talking. “Just making a valid observation.”

“In you go,” Fareeha said, pointing Fawkes toward the door after tying Cloud out front.

“I’m going, I’m going,” Fawkes grumbled. “No need to rush; ain’t like I got a fancy date with anything but a cell.”

“This way,” Winston beckoned once they entered. The office was almost comically small for his large frame as he settled onto a stool in front of a large desk covered in various tools and what looked like half-finished projects.

Oxton was a blur around the office, one moment rifling through desk drawers muttering about proper forms, the next, opening one of the three cells at the far end of the building and ushering Fawkes inside before he could so much as say a word in protest.

He glanced around, a bemused look on his face, before shrugging and collapsing onto the small cot inside with a sigh of relief.

Another flash and Fareeha found herself holding a crinkled and stained document. “My papers,” Oxton offered by way of explanation before disappearing again with a wink only to reappear at the sheriff’s side, bowing her head to confer quietly with him on the forms now spread across his desk.

Fareeha dutifully looked over the official document in her grasp.

“So what you think, Ranger?” Oxton popped back up beside her. There was a dangerous lilt to her voice. “I get the a-okay to keep existing?”

“Lena,” Winston said reprovingly from across the room.

Fareeha was tired of this. “Despite what you may think, I’m not here to play judge, jury, and executioner. Just because I _can_ exercise extrajudicial power where needed does not mean I _should_. I prefer to work within the bounds of the law where possible.” She handed the paper back. “With that being said, everything appears to be in order. You have a focus?”

The deputy regarded her with something almost like respect. “Huh. You Rangers do do your research, don’t you?” She pulled the chain of her necklace up with one hand, revealing a small watch that pulsed with a faint blue light each time the second hand ticked. “No Blinker worth her salt’d go without one.” She tucked the focus back into her shirt with a shrug and a grin that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “The ethereal realms are fun to pass through, not so fun to be stuck in.”

“I can imagine,” Fareeha said.

“Can you?” Oxton retorted.

“I was in New Memphis when Anubis and his minions opened the gateway,” Fareeha said quietly.

Lena winced. “Sorry,” she muttered.

“You’re _that_ Pharah?”

All eyes turned to the cell at the far wall as Fawkes burst into a fit of wild  laughter. “Aww man, wait ‘til the big guy hears about this!” He wiped tears from his eyes, grinning like a madman. “I got arrested by the Jackal!” He shook his head. “If I’d known who you were, mate, I never would have blown you up.” He held up a hand. “Scout’s honor.”

“You were never a scout,”” Fareeha said firmly. Fawkes conceded that point with a shrug.

“You’re the Jackal? the sheriff asked, awe in his voice as he pushed his spectacles up his nose to peer closer at her. “You’re the one who took down Anubis?”

“Put a bullet in his brain and blew up the gate for good measure,” Fawkes interjected helpfully when Fareeha remained silent. He sighed dreamily. “A right work of art, that was, a truly inspirational use of high-grade explosives.”

“It was unintentional, I assure you,” Fareeha said mildly. She didn’t want to think about Anubis; he was dead and in the past where he belonged. She turned back to the sheriff, all business.

“I’ll put in a report to our outpost in Aberdeen Station, let them know that Jamison Fawkes is in custody. They should send a wagon out to collect him within a week.”

Winston frowned at her. “You won’t be transporting him?”.

Fareeha shook her head, wincing at the pull on her bandage. “I have other business to attend to in the area.” She glanced around pointedly. “There should be a form I need to sign authorizing the transfer and then I’ll be out of your way.”

“Right here.” Oxton blinked away and back, placing a yellow piece of paper on the desk along with a pen.

Fareeha saw that it had already been mostly filled out and felt absurdly grateful for that fact. She bent over to sign her name, ignoring the sharp pain in her side. “You know anyone in town who can take a look at my horse?” She straightened. “And a good gunsmith?”

The deputy scratched her cheek. “For horses, you’ll want to go next door, talk to Lúcio.” She glanced out the window at the darkening sky. “If he’s not in, you might try over at the saloon. He plays there in the evenings sometimes.”

“For weapons, you should see Lindholm,” Winston added. He grabbed the form, adding his own signature to the bottom. “Small blue building on the edge of town. Can’t miss it.”

Fareeha started. “Lindholm? As in Torbjörn Lindholm? He lives here?” She brought a hand to her head.

Oxton nodded. “It’s not well-known, but yeah. Says he’s retired, but he still does a fair bit of tinkering, and he usually doesn’t need much convincing to take a job. He likes to stay busy.” She cocked her head to the side, face suddenly concerned. “You should really see the doc first, though. Her place is right across from Lindholm’s. ‘Cause honestly, Ranger? You don’t look so good.”

She didn’t feel so good. The events of the last few days were finally catching up with her now that the weight of bringing Fawkes in was done with. Her head was pounding, her arm was throbbing,and the deputy’s words seemed to come to her through a long tunnel. Fareeha frowned, shaking her head to try and clear her ears. “What did you say?”

The deputy bit her lip, exchanging a worried glance with the sheriff. She pointed. “I said, you’re bleeding.”

Fareeha looked down to see a red stain spreading across her shirt.

“Lena, go grab Angela, if you would?” Winston said quietly.

“Right.” A flash and she was gone.

“Perhaps you’d like to sit down, Ranger?” the sheriff enquired, hurriedly pulling up a chair.

Fareeha felt like laughing at the sheer audacity of this day getting any worse even as her vision went grey at the edges. That sign? Definitely a bad omen. She collapsed to the floor.


	2. Two Men Walk into a Bar

Something in the air changed when the man in black swept through the door. The lights seemed just a little bit dimmer; the piano in the corner sounded just a little more off-key; men shivered in their seats despite the heat. Mako kept eating; he was no stranger to death.

The man surveyed the bar in silence, red eyes barely visible behind the skull mask covering most of his face, before his gaze landed on the larger man. He strode through the room, ignoring the averted gazes and whispered murmurs as he passed.

“You’re the one they call Roadhog?” the man growled out.

“Piss off,” Mako grunted. 

The man in black ignored him, pulling up a chair across the table. “I have a proposition for you.”

Mako downed his drink, signalling the bartender for another as the music from the piano behind them picked back up and low conversations around the room resumed. “Not interested.”

“You haven’t heard it yet.”

“Don’t need to.” Mako snorted. “You reek of snake oil.” He shoved a biscuit into his mouth. “Besides,” he mumbled, spewing crumbs across the table, “already got a job.”

“Newspaper says your boss is currently rotting in a jail cell,” the man in black stated. He looked down at his coat and flicked a piece of biscuit off to the side. 

Mako’s head rose sharply. “Not my boss,” he all but snarled.

The man in black cocked his head to the side. “Oh?” Mako could practically hear the vicious smirk in his voice. “Word on the street is you’re just the rat’s lackey.”

Mako grit his teeth together so hard he could hear them creak. “I’m no one’s lackey,” he ground out, “least of all that idiot’s.”

The man nodded once. “Good. Then you’re available.”

“Didn’t say that.” Mako tipped his bowl up, draining the last of his stew. “Made a deal. Plan to stick to it.” He lowered the bowl and jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “So get lost.”

The man went still for a long moment before giving a small shrug. ”Well, if words won’t convince you—” Mako found himself looking down the barrel of a sawed-off shotgun. “—perhaps bullets will.” 

The piano behind them sounded a loud discordant note, and all eyes in the bar turned their way. Conversation ceased as the entire building seemed to hold its collective breath.

“There’s no need for that now,” the bartender said placatingly as he walked over, massive mug of beer in one hand. “If ya’ll fellas are having a disagreement, you can just go on now and take it outside. No sense shootin’ up the joint for no good reason.”

With one smooth motion, the man in black pulled out another shotgun, shattering the glass in the bartender’s hand with a single blast and sending shards of glass flying. His aim with the other never even wavered. “We’re trying to have a civil conversation here,” he commented almost conversationally as the blood drained from the bartender’s face. “It’s rude to interrupt.”

“Was gonna drink that,” Mako pointed out as the bartender scurried away with a mumbled apology.

“I’ll buy you another,” the man in black said brusquely, “once our business is done.” 

“There is no ‘business,’” Mako growled, beginning to get irritated. “Told you, not interested.”

“I think my friend here says otherwise.” The man moved the weapon up and down slightly for emphasis, eyes glowing with an almost hellish light behind the mask.

Mako couldn’t help it; he laughed. “Trick only works on those who fear death,  _ Reaper _ .” He leaned forward until the barrel of the shotgun touched his forehead. “Better hope your shot kills.” A feral grin crossed his face. “You won’t get another.”

“Heh.” Reaper chuckled lightly; it wasn’t a pleasant sound. “You’ve heard of me.”

Mako shrugged, leaning back again and crossing his arms. “Junkers tell stories. Man in a skull mask. Can’t be killed. Just disappears like smoke. Poof.” He mimicked the motion with one hand. “And death always follows. Makes you wonder.”

“Wonder what?” Reaper asked.

“What’s under the mask.”

“Wondering is free,” Reaper said, cold amusement threaded through his voice. His hand on the gun remained steady, but his eyes flickered briefly once more, like a fire’s dying light. “Finding out is another thing altogether.”

Mako grunted, unimpressed. 

“You’re not intimidated at all.” Reaper shook his head with grudging respect even as he lowered his weapons and stashed them away beneath his coat once more.

“Should I be?” 

“Most are,” Reaper replied. “Even made a few die of fright.”

“Not hard with this lot.” Mako gestured over his shoulder with his thumb. The rest of the bar studiously looked elsewhere, stilted conversations starting up again as they tried to avoid bringing attention to themselves. The piano player behind them began playing a simple tune.

“So it would seem,” Reaper sneered. His eyes flicked briefly to the windows up front, and he stood abruptly. He took a card out of his coat and tossed it across the table. “It appears I have other business to attend to. If you change your mind, come to that location in a week’s time. I’ll be waiting.”

Mako made no move to take the card.

Reaper shrugged and stalked out of the bar, coat swirling behind him in a cold,  unnatural breeze. The piano player began plinking away at a funeral march, but the room breathed a little easier in the man's wake.  


“Cheapskate,” Mako muttered, signalling the bartender for his drink. 

The man hurriedly brought it over, keeping his head down and all but running away again with his tail between his legs like a kicked dog. Mako rolled his eyes as he grabbed his drink. Pathetic. 

He took a long draught, wiping his mouth with the back of one massive hand when he was done. He glanced to the side and set the mug down. “Get what you need?” he asked, seemingly to no one in particular.

The woman at the piano turned her head, purple eyes glinting mischievously as she grinned over her shoulder. “I believe I did.”

Mako grunted. “Then stop playing. Givin’ me a headache.”

The woman complied, spinning her stool around to face him. She leaned forward on her elbows. “Gonna take that?” she asked, gesturing to the card on the table.

Mako flicked it with one finger, sending it spinning across the table. “All yours, Stalker.”

“It’s Sombra,” the woman said easily as she snatched up the card, turning it over and holding it up to the light. “Som-bra. I’ve told you this before.” With a flick of her fingers, the card disappeared.

Mako shrugged one shoulder and took another drink. “An empty name.”

Sombra smiled, all teeth. “But still a name nonetheless . There’s no need to be rude.”

“Hmm.”

Sombra shook her head but reached into her pocket and pulled out a small sack that jingled slightly, tossing it over. Mako snagged it out of the air with one hand and tucked it away.

“Not going to count it?” Sombra asked, raising one eyebrow.

Mako paused in the middle of raising his glass for another drink. “Did you cheat me?”

Sombra shook her head. “Bad for business if I did. No one trusts a cheat.”

“Then we’re done here.” Mako drained his glass and pushed his chair back.

“What will you do now?” Sombra asked. “That thing, Reaper, he wasn’t wrong. Your partner  _ is _ in jail, slated to be transferred east in a few days’ time.”

Mako narrowed his eyes. “Why d’you want to know?”

Sombra propped her chin on her hands. “Call me curious.”

“Curiosity killed the cat.”

Sombra rolled her eyes. “And satisfaction brought it back.” She made a ‘carry on’ gesture with one hand. “So?”

Mako stood. “Gonna do my job, get the idiot out. Where is he?”

Sombra shook one finger. “Ah ah ah, information has its price, and _that_ particular piece was not part of our deal.” She leaned back against the edge of the piano. “But we can negotiate a new one if you like.”

“Don’t bother.” Mako said. He turned to the next table and grabbed one of the men sitting there by the lapels, lifting him bodily out of his seat and bringing him face to face. “Jamison Fawkes, bank robber. Where is he?”

“Deadhorse!” the man gasped out, scrabbling in his hold. “Paper said he’s being held in Deadhorse!” Mako released his grip, and the man collapsed to the ground, coughing.

“Crude, but effective,” Sombra said. 

Mako turned his head, but the woman had disappeared from sight, leaving nothing but a spinning piano stool behind. He felt a hand slip into his pocket, but met with nothing but air when he spun around.

“Consider this advance payment for delivering a message for me,” Sombra said. Her voice seemed to echo from multiple locations. “There’s a Ranger in Deadhorse, the same one that arrested your partner. Seems she’s been laid up, courtesy of Mr. Fawkes, but I would still tread lightly.”

“Rangers don’t scare me,” Mako said to the empty air.

“No, I suppose they wouldn’t. Still, fair warning given.” Mako couldn’t pin down where the woman was, but she sounded further away. 

There was a tug on his ponytail, and Mako spun again, growling.

“Always a pleasure, Mr. Rutledge. Do stay in touch.” A ghostly laugh, a swing of the door, and she was gone.

Mako grunted. Fucking Stalkers, always had to have the last laugh. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small envelope. There was a name and instructions written on it. He crumpled it in one fist and stuck it back in his pocket.

He tossed a few coins on the table and stepped outside, shading his eyes against the harsh afternoon sunlight. He cracked his neck before striding off. There was work to be done.  



	3. Do Not Pass Go

The dream was always the same as reality, at least at the beginning, as if even her mind couldn’t come up with a worse nightmare.

 

New Memphis was eerily quiet in the unnatural twilight brought about by the open Gate.

“Where are all the people?” Tariq asked, looking around as their captain took stock of the situation. He winced as his voice echoed off the empty buildings.

“Quiet, rookie,” Pharah warned, keeping her own voice low. She turned to the man beside her. “Captain?”

Khalil shook his head slightly as he surveyed the barren city that just days ago had laid claim to over 40,000 inhabitants; there should have been at least some signs of life. “I don’t like this.”

“We have a mission,” Pharah pointed out. “Doesn’t matter if we like it or not.”

“I am aware,” Khalil said dryly, resettling his hat on his head. “But we’ve already lost one team. You’ll forgive me if I’m reluctant to risk another.”

“The actual world is at stake if that Gate stays open,” Pharah said, “That’s worth more than all our lives if it comes to that.”

“Depends on your definition of ‘world’ now, doesn’t it,” Khalil mused. He gestured to the rest of the group. “We have a responsibility to those underneath us as well, oaths and orders be damned.”

Pharah shifted on her feet. That sounded uncomfortably close to treason.

The captain shrugged and loosened his gun in its holster, a resigned expression on his face. “Eh, don’t mind me, just an old man chewing the cud. Now c’mon―” He clapped her on the shoulder and turned back to the rest of the team. “We’ve got a world to save.”

 

Okoro was the first to fall, the clockwork man grinding to a halt in a clatter of gears and the hiss of steam. “My apologies,” he said, voice as even as always even as his limbs jerked like a broken windup toy, “but it appears I’ve been compromised.” His normally bright blue core began to pulse with a sickly green light. One mechanical arm shimmered and rippled along its length, sprouting claws the length of knife blades at the tip. His head turned towards them even as it split and cracked, arcane energy cascading over the fissures in his metal form. His voice came out warped, almost a growl. “They are coming. Please run.”

The team could do nothing but watch in horror as their teammate shifted , growing to a towering height with the ear-splitting screech of metal stressed beyond its limit. Spines erupted from his back and his faceplate widened to accommodate the gleaming tusks that sprouted from its surface. That same green light crackled across his steel casing like lightning, knitting metal and ghostly flesh together into one monstrous whole.

Okoro, _no_ , the ethereal beast that had once been Okoro looked down at them through eyes lit by green fire and _screamed_ , the sound sending half the team to its knees with their hands over their ears. Before Pharah could shout a warning, the beast raised one massive hand and brought it down. But it ignored the humans at its feet, raking at the still glowing core in the center of its chest instead.

With a resounding _crack_ , the core split in two, and a massive blast of energy sent the rest of the team flying. The beast swayed on its feet for one precarious moment before crashing to the ground, the green fire of its eyes draining away.

“What in the hell―” Saleh began as he pulled himself out of the wreckage of what had once been a market stall, but he was interrupted by a bone-chilling chorus of roars erupting across the once-silent city.

Within seconds another beast turned the corner down the street, skittering towards them on centipede-like legs. The team sprang into action, bringing their weapons to bear and letting loose with a hail of gunfire.

The creature shrieked as bullets tore into its flesh before it too collapsed to the ground, greenish-black ichor draining away into the street beneath it.

“Is it dead?” Aizad asked, poking his head up over the overturned bench in front of him.

The captain waved him back down as he crept forward towards the beast, revolver trained on its still form. He carefully prodded it with one foot before gesturing to Pharah who trotted over.

“What is it?” she asked, keeping her voice down.

“I think we just found out what happened to the people here,” the captain said grimly, staring down at the all-too-human face implanted in the torso of the beast at his feet. He leaned down with a grunt and closed its eyes.

“I’ve never heard of something like this,” Pharah responded, wracking her brain for some sort of explanation even as her stomach turned. Her mother’s stories had never mentioned anything like this. “As far as I know, it shouldn’t even be possible.”

“No, it shouldn’t,” Khalil agreed, a grim look on his face. He dusted his hands and stood up, waving the rest of the team over. “We need to get that Gate closed as quickly as possible. We can’t let this spread any further.” He grunted as he reloaded. “At least regular bullets seem to bring them down easy enough.”

Pharah nodded.

Khalil snapped his cylinder shut with a click. “All right, here’s the plan—” Before he could finish, the wall behind them exploded, raining debris down on their heads. With a deafening bellow, another horrific beast descended on them, slamming into the pavement with a ground-shaking thud and sending the group of Rangers into chaos.

Pharah found herself hurled to the side, her rifle knocked from her grasp and sent skittering across the pavement as she fetched up against a concrete pillar with enough force to knock the wind out of her. A flash of brilliant light sent afterimages dancing across her vision, and the rumble of thunder sounded ominously overhead.

Pharah shook her head as she rolled to her knees; there was something niggling at her attention, like an insistent tap on the shoulder. She coughed wetly into her hand, and froze when it came away red. _This isn’t how it went._

Someone grabbed her by the arm. “Lieutenant!” Saleh yelled in her ear over the sound of gunfire and thunder both. “Lieutenant! The captain is―”

Tariq shouldered him aside, bright blue eyes intense as he grabbed Pharah’s blood-stained hand. “Ranger! I need a name.”

“What?” Pharah asked, the word taking much more effort to produce than normal. Her tongue felt thick in her mouth, and her legs were unsteady beneath her as she rose to her feet. _This definitely isn’t how it went..._

“Your name!” Tariq insisted, glancing upwards as sheet lightning arced across the clouds gathering overhead.

“Pharah,” she answered with a frown; something was wrong. “You know that.” Her head snapped up as another bestial roar sounded close by, and she pushed other concerns aside. She grabbed Tariq and made sure to catch Saleh’s eye. “We need to get to cover and regroup!” She spun on her heel.

“You need to listen to me!” Tariq yelled.

Pharah ignored him, ducking into a nearby doorway, checking to make sure Saleh followed as well. She skidded to a halt, dropping to one knee as she pulled the rookie down with her. She winced as the motion pulled at the wound in her stomach and paused. _When did that happen?_

“ _Of course_ you would be resistant,” Tariq muttered, rubbing his temples. He glanced down as Pharah instinctively curled around her wound. A worried look crossed his face. “A pox on all hard-headed Rangers!” he swore, grabbing her chin in one hand. “We don’t have time for annoying superstitions!” he snapped. “I need a _name_ , a real one!”

Pharah jerked her head away from the burning touch and looked up into determined blue eyes that flashed in time with the lightning just outside. _Wait, blue?_ “You aren’t Tariq,” she said flatly, pushing the man away and bringing her weapon up, or trying to at least. Her body didn’t seem to be listening to her anymore. She fell back against the wall instead, a chilling numbness seeping into her extremities. “Who are you?”

Not-Tariq hesitated, flinching as a deafening clap of thunder shook the building. “A friend,” he said finally. “Your name, _please_.”

The blood loss must have gone to her head. That was the only explanation for why she trusted such a flimsy answer. “Amari.” She coughed wetly again, spitting a wad of blood onto the stone floor before letting her head fall back. “Fareeha Amari.”

“Fareeha Amari,” Not-Tariq repeated, relief in his tone. Fareeha felt a slight tug in her chest at his words. “You will _not_ die here, not today.”

“Of course not,” Fareeha said with a frown and a certainty she didn’t know the source of. “That isn’t how it goes.” She looked around. “This isn’t where we took cover.” The walls around them began to disintegrate. She looked down. “I wasn’t wounded.” She immediately felt stronger, her head clearer. She turned, hand going for her weapon once more. “And you―”

Not-Tariq actually winked. “I was never here.” There was a bright flash of gold light just as a bolt of lightning struck the street outside. Thunder _cracked_ , and the world shattered.

Pharah blinked the spots out of her eyes.

Someone grabbed her by the arm. “Lieutenant!” Saleh yelled over the ringing in her ears. “Lieutenant! The captain is dead!” Pharah looked at him blankly for a moment, an intense feeling of déjà vu sweeping over her.

The beast roared as it caught sight of them, and Pharah’s training kicked in. She brought her rifle up and pumped two rounds into the lizard-like creature as it rushed them. It crashed to a halt nearly at her feet, still twitching. She carefully didn’t examine its features too closely as she put another round into it just to be sure.

“Mahmud and Aizad?” she asked, stepping around the creature. Saleh shook his head. Pharah let out a long breath as she reloaded her rifle. “Right. Grab Tariq and keep close to me. We’re going for the Gate.” They could mourn later. For now, they had a mission to finish, but even as she jogged away, Pharah couldn’t shake the feeling that she was missing something, something important.

 

  
+

 

Fareeha bolted awake, hissing in sudden pain as the motion sent a sharp jolt through her stomach. She wrapped one arm around herself and took shallow breaths through gritted teeth as she sat up slowly, banishing the last shreds of her nightmare to the shadows where it belonged.

There was the sound of someone shifting nearby, then an all-too-familiar voice piped up. “Well, howdy, neighbor! How ya goin’?”

Fareeha groaned. Apparently her mind had decided to conjure up _another_ nightmare. “Why are you still here?” she croaked out; her throat felt as dry as the desert.

“What d’ya mean?” Fawkes asked, voice altogether too cheerful for Fareeha’s already frayed nerves. “I’m right where ya left me. You’re the one that’s still here.”

Fareeha opened her eyes, blearily trying to make sense of her surroundings in the dim light provided by a nearby oil lamp, but her memory was decidedly unhelpful when she searched back through it for an explanation for her current circumstances. She sighed and turned to her ‘neighbor.’ “Why am I in jail?”

Fawkes cackled. “You should see the look on your face, mate. It’s priceless.”

Fareeha just glowered; she was not in the mood for games.

“Sheesh, tough crowd,” Fawkes muttered, grin falling. “Ya really need to work on that sense of humor there, Jackal.” He waved a hand toward her cell door. “It’s not locked, unlike mine. The doc said she didn’t wanna move ya is she could help it. You were bleedin’ pretty bad for a while there.” He rubbed the back of his head sheepishly. “Sorry ‘bout that, by the way.”

“Stop calling me that,” Fareeha snapped.

“What, Jackal?” Fawkes asked. He frowned at her sharp nod. “But it’s a good one, mate! Almost a right proper Junker name there.” He pointed his thumb at his chest. “Ya got Junkrat,”―he started counting off on his fingers―“and Roadhog, and Scraphawk, and Trainshark, though he’s a bit of a mean one, generally want to stay out of his way, but then there’s Tinmouse, and Jewelfox, and the old Queen herself…”

Fareeha shook her head, tuning him out as he continued rattling off names, and glanced at the cell door, noticing now that it was slightly ajar. It was comforting to know she wasn’t locked in at least. Now if only she could find some water.

A slight noise from outside her cell made her look up.

There was a blonde woman sitting in the sheriff's office, feet propped up on a desk as she slept in what could only be the deputy’s chair. The woman shifted, tucking her chin into the blanket draped across her chest and letting out a light snore. But it wasn’t that that caught Fareeha’s attention so much as the pitcher of water sitting on the same desk, drops of condensation beading on its metal surface.

Fareeha considered the distance, then levered herself to her feet, swaying slightly as the blood rushed to her head. She instinctively tried to steady herself against the wall, but nearly toppled back onto the cot when she found her arm bound firmly to her side. She leaned awkwardly against the wall instead, cursing under her breath for missing that glaring fact even as she marveled at the lack of pain in her shoulder as she experimentally moved her arm as much as the bandaging would allow.

“Uhhh, mate? You okay over there?” Fawkes asked, pausing in his seemingly endless list of names. “Cuz I really don’t think you’re s’posed to be up and at ‘em yet.” He scratched his head. “Least that’s what the doc said.”

“I’m fine,” Fareeha responded, pushing herself off the wall with her free arm. “Just getting some water.”

Fawkes eyed her dubiously. “Suit yourself, I guess, Jackal―err, Ranger,” he amended quickly at her glare. “But five coppers says you don’t make it past the door.”

Fareeha snorted, immediately regretting it as her side throbbed in response. “You don’t have five coppers,” she said through gritted teeth.

“I’m good for it,” Fawkes insisted.

“Fine,” Fareeha said, licking her parched lips. The pitcher of water was practically calling her name at this point, and she’d be damned if she didn’t make it at least that far. “You’re on.”

“That’s the spirit!” Fawkes cackled.

Fareeha shook her head, wondering what her life had come to. The mission had been simple: corroborate reports of vigilante activity in the Outlands. That was it. An almost insultingly easy mission, more the commander’s attempt to keep her from butting heads with the Assistant Director of the Justice Department yet again than anything else. Yet here she was getting blown up, nearly bleeding out in some hole-in-the-wall backwater town with a gorilla for a sheriff, and making bets with criminals on whether she could walk across a jail cell. If the situation wasn’t so absurd, she might have laughed.

As it was, she had a bet to win.

Keeping her good hand against the wall, Fareeha made her way one unsteady step at a time towards the cell door. She had to pause to catch both her breath and her balance twice along the way, but she eventually found herself leaning heavily against the side of the cell door as it swung open.

“Huh, they do make Rangers out of tougher stuff,” Fawkes muttered from his cot. “So much for easy money.”

Fareeha ignored him, eyes on the water pitcher that was now so tantalizingly close and yet still out of reach. The woman at the desk shifted in her sleep, muttering something Fareeha couldn’t make out before burrowing deeper into her blanket. Fareeha debated waking her, if only so she didn’t have to worry about it while grabbing the water, but judging from the dark circles under her eyes and the fact that she hadn’t woken already, the woman needed her sleep.That, and she wasn’t sure she had the breath to. The short walk across the cell had left her breathing shallowly against the sharp ache in her side and her head spinning. The cool, solid metal of the cell bars was almost a relief.

Still, the water wasn’t going to fetch itself.

Fareeha pushed herself off the bars and took a lurching step forward, nearly falling face first as she instinctively tried to correct her balance with her bound arm. She managed to stumble forwards the short distance into the desk instead, colliding heavily with the solid wood. She looked down into confused blue eyes as the sleeping woman startled awake before gasping as her wound flared in protest at the motion. The world greyed out at the edges, and Fareeha clutched the edge of the desk with a white-knuckled grip to keep from passing out. She was vaguely aware of a loud crash and muttered curses nearby, but she didn’t dare look up, focused as she was on drawing one shallow breath at a time.

There was a light touch on her shoulder. “Easy does it,” a gentle voice murmured. “It will pass. Just focus on the sound of my voice if you can. Breathe in...and out.” The woman repeated the mantra over and over again, and Fareeha felt the throbbing pain in her side subside to a dull ache as her breathing slowly eased.

The woman pulled her hand away quickly and took a step back. She reached for the pitcher on the desk and poured a glass of water before holding it out in Fareeha’s direction. “Slowly,” she cautioned when Fareeha all but snatched it from her hand.

Fareeha didn’t drain the glass in one swallow, but it was a near thing. “Thank you,” she croaked out once she felt like she could speak. She set the glass back down on the desk with a sigh of relief.

“You’re welcome,” the woman responded, hiding a yawn in her arm. “Sorry,” she apologized, “It’s been some long days.”

_Days?_ Fareeha rubbed her head, suddenly missing the comforting weight of her hat. She lowered her hand carefully. “Sorry to wake you.”

The woman waved away her apology. “I’m glad you did. I thought you might wake sometime today.” A hint of a smile crossed her face. “Although I will admit I was hoping you might wait ‘til daybreak at least, and you really shouldn’t be on your feet yet.” Bright blue eyes flashed to the side as she raised her voice. “I thought I asked you to keep an eye on her, Jamie.”

“I did!” Fawkes protested, sitting up straight on his cot. He pointed at his face. “Both of ‘em.”

“That...isn’t what I meant,” the woman said with a sigh, even as her eyes crinkled in silent laughter.

Fareeha blinked, feeling a bit dazed. “I’m sorry, have we met?”

The woman looked back to her.

“You just seem...familiar,” Fareeha continued, resisting the urge to rub her head again. She glanced around the room. _Ah, there it is._

The woman smiled. “I’m not surprised. You’ve been in and out for the past few days. I don’t believe we’ve been properly introduced, however.” She shook her head slightly. “I’m Angela Ziegler, the doctor here in Deadhorse.”

“Pharah,” Fareeha responded with a grimace as she took a step towards her gear, “Ranger. So I have you to thank for patching me up then?”

The doctor narrowed her eyes, seeing her intent. “That’s right, and I meant what I said about you being on your feet. The only direction you should be going is back to bed. A few burns and a dislocated shoulder, while painful, are easy enough to fix. Gut wounds with internal bleeding, not so much. I’d prefer it if you didn’t undo all my hard work stitching you up right away.”

“I just want my gear,” Fareeha protested.

“I’ll bring it to you,” the doctor replied firmly, tone brooking no argument.

Fareeha hesitated.

“Ya barely made it out of yer cell the first time,” Fawkes pointed out helpfully from where he was lounging on his cot randomly tapping his metal hand against the wall.

“And you owe me five coppers for that,” Fareeha retorted, keeping herself from wavering on her feet by sheer will alone.

“Errr…”

“You two were making bets?” the doctor asked, a dangerous lilt to her voice.

They realized their mistake immediately. “No,” they chorused, glancing at each other with equally horrified expressions at having the same thought.

“Right.” The doctor looked like she was asking the ceiling for patience. She let out a long breath before lowering her eyes and gesturing to the cell. “Please?”

Fareeha nodded and made her way back to her cot carefully. The doctor watched her go with a critical eye but didn’t insist on helping her walk, a fact for which she was grateful. Still, she lowered herself to her cot with a sigh of relief, ignoring the enthusiastic applause from the next cell over as she leaned back against the wall.

The thump of her bags hitting the floor startled Fareeha back into awareness, and she realized she must have dozed off.

“Thank you, Doctor Ziegler,” Fareeha said, leaning over with a wince to grab the black hat on top of the pile and settling it on top of her head. _Much better_. She finally felt a little like herself again.

“Angela, please,” the doctor corrected. “Or just Doctor if you must.” She covered a yawn with the back of her hand. “Sorry.”

“Thank you, Angela,” Fareeha repeated.

Angela nodded in acknowledgement.

“Hey, how come you call her by her name, and not me?” Fawkes complained.

“Because she saved my life and you tried to blow me up.”

“I said I was sorry for that,” Fawkes muttered sullenly. He cocked his head to the side thoughtfully. “And for this, I guess.” He raised his voice. “You might want to cover your heads.” He pointed to his own head helpfully before diving into the furthest corner of his cell and curling up into a ball

“What?” Angela asked, confusion evident in her tone.

Fareeha frowned. There was an acrid tang to the air and a faint hissing sound that was oddly familiar. Her eyes widened and she threw herself to the side, dragging the doctor down with her.

The back wall of the sheriff’s office exploded inwards in a shower of splinters and dust. Fareeha raised her head, ears ringing as something wet trickled down the side of her face. One of the largest men she had ever seen stepped through the wreckage of Fawkes’ cell, brushing aside the few remaining boards in the back wall like they were nothing more than toothpicks.

“Oh hey there, Roadie; long time no see,” Fawkes said, a wide grin spreading across his face as he looked up at the looming giant. He glanced to the side where Fareeha and Angela were still recovering from the small explosion. “Well it’s been just lovely gettin’ to know ya, Ranger; we really hafta do this again sometime.” He pointed up. “But it looks like my ride's here.”

“Shut up,” the large man rumbled as he hoisted Fawkes up bodily from the floor with one hand and threw him over his shoulder before turning to leave the same way he came.

Fawkes waved goodbye from his new perch. “Sorry ‘bout the mess.” He turned his head. “It was nice ta meet ya, Doc.”

“Doc?” The large man repeated, turning. Angela scrambled back as he peered down at her through the thick goggles obscuring his eyes over the bandana tied around his face, but he only rummaged around in his pocket before producing a wadded up ball of paper. He tossed it through the cell bars. “Message for you.” He turned back and tossed Fawkes through the smoldering hole in the wall with a grunt, ignoring his vociferous protests as he stepped through after him into the night. And just like that, they were gone.

Fareeha shook herself out of her shock, jammed her hat back on her head, and rummaged quickly through her bag before staggering to her feet, cursing as she tried to buckle her belt one-handed. She finally got it, sliding her knife sheath so it sat in its familiar spot on her hip. She ignored the insistent pain building in her side and managed to make her way all the way across the office before she had to stop and catch her breath, catching a glimpse of a small cart racing out of town as she slumped against the door frame.

“Where are you going?” Angela asked, coming up behind her as she quickly stuffed a small piece of paper into her pocket.

“What does it look like?” Fareeha said grimly. “I’m going after them. I’m a Ranger; I can’t just sit back and let criminals escape under my nose.”

“And just what do you think you’re going to do if you somehow catch up to them?” the doctor asked, not unkindly. “It’s the middle of the night, you can barely stand upright, and you don’t have your gun.”

“Or a horse,” Fareeha muttered, looking at the empty hitching post. She dragged a hand down her face in frustration.

A gentle hand on her shoulder made her look down. “There’s nothing you can do.” The doctor steered her towards the bench outside the office, biting her lip with a worried expression on her face. “Rest, please, before you tear something that I can't fix. I’m going to fetch the sheriff, and then I’ll be right back, okay?”

She waited for Fareeha to nod, blue eyes piercing into hers as if searching for any deception. She was apparently satisfied with what she saw, for she gave Fareeha’s good shoulder a brief squeeze before pulling her sweater tighter around herself and marching off down the street.

  
Fareeha took her hat off with a sigh and leaned back until her head thunked against the solid wall behind her. And again. And again. She allowed her eyes to close briefly. _Well at least the day can only go up from here..._


	4. Ennui

Amélie breathed in. Widowmaker breathed out.

It was an uneasy rhythm they had fallen into, a truce of sorts between the two entities vying for control of the same mind, same body.

Amélie grumbled at the chill in the air and the tree bark digging into their back, but Widowmaker kept them still and focused as the boughs of the pine tree they were perched in swayed in time with the slight breeze drifting through the small forest bordering the outskirts of town. Birdsong filled the air around them as the sun began to peek above the horizon. Amélie perked up at the sound, going so far as to tug at the bond tethering them together in her effort to hear better. Widowmaker allowed it; she didn’t need their ears right now anyway, focused as she was on tracking the fluttering of the worn and faded griffin banner adorning the front porch of her target’s house through her scope now that it was light enough to see.

Light blossomed in one of the house’s windows as its inhabitants began to stir. Widowmaker nudged Amélie aside none too gently. She faded away without more than a flicker of protest; she had learned early and hard that she did not want to be present for what would inevitably come next.

Widowmaker settled down to wait for the target to appear, letting out a long, slow breath that in anyone less disciplined might have been called a sigh. She couldn’t remember the last time she hadn’t been utterly bored. No, that was a lie, and Widowmaker was many things, but a liar she was not. There was one bright spark in the utter drudgery that was her life ever since that thrice-cursed witch had tethered her to the most pathetic, useless, snivelling excuse for a host she had ever inhabited.

The clockwork ambassador, Mondatta. Now _that_ had been a kill worthy of her skills. She could feel a smile of satisfaction cross her face as she replayed the moment she had hung in the air, time slowing to a fraction of its normal pace as she pulled the trigger. His oddly glowing eyes had flickered briefly before going dark and his metal body ground to a halt, toppling off the platform. The crowd had stood in stunned silence before the screams began, and what lovely screams they’d been. Terrified. Panic-stricken. It had been like music to her ears. She’d never felt so alive, even if the moment had been marred slightly by the interference of that annoying girl who winked in and out of existence almost as fast as she could shoot. Almost.

_The Blinker, Lena Oxton_ , Amélie supplied, rousing slightly. _Gérard spoke highly of her when she was a cadet_.

“An annoyance,” Widowmaker shot back, but it appeared that Amélie had nothing further to add.

She turned her attention back to the house, frowning as the view through her scope shook. She pulled her head back in confusion. Her hands were trembling, and there was a prickling sensation at the corners of her eyes. She swiped the back of one hand across her cheeks, surprised to see it come away wet.

_Gérard..._

With a snarl of realization, Widowmaker shoved Amélie back down until she fled to the maze she’d created in a corner of their shared mind to escape. Widowmaker knew better than to follow. She’d tried once early on with disastrous results, nearly losing herself in the winding paths and endless turns. She had the sneaking suspicion that she’d only emerged again because her host didn’t have the heart to keep her trapped, and that fact stung her pride more than she cared to admit to anyone, least of all herself.  So, the maze was off-limits.

Instead, she took a deep breath, trying to reclaim some of the calm that Amélie had shattered. She didn’t know why the other woman refused to just let go and fade away. None of her previous hosts had held out so long against the parasitic magic joining them together, and it wasn’t like her current host had anything left to live for; she’d made sure of that. Widowmaker shook her head slightly. It just didn’t make sense.

Movement below caught her attention as a giant of a man stepped onto the porch and she pushed such distracting thoughts aside. He matched the description of the target she’d been given: male, 60s, white hair, massive build, heavily scarred.  She just needed one final confirmation.

The man leaned forward on the porch railing, hands cradling a steaming mug, and there it was, clear as day through her scope, the lion’s head tattoo on his left forearm that marked a former Crusader. She could see the faint blue glow coursing through the lines of the tattoo, magic barrier still ready to activate in seconds if called upon.

Her finger tightened almost imperceptibly on the trigger as she centered her sights over his forehead; she didn’t mean to give him that chance.

A train whistle sounded in the distance. That was her cue. Widowmaker breathed in...and out. She squeezed the trigger, and a sharp crack shattered the peaceful calm of the morning.

The steel coffee mug dropped to the ground with a clang and rolled across the porch, spilled liquid steaming in the early morning air. The former Crusader swayed on his feet for one moment before tipping over backwards and collapsing with a thud that shook the house.

Widowmaker watched the light fade from his eyes before his body even hit the ground. A clean kill, one that any other sniper would be proud of, but it wasn’t pride that curdled in her breast as she raised her head from the scope. She shook her head as she straightened and began methodically stripping her rifle down to fit in her valise. Once it was packed away out of sight, she jumped from her perch in the tree, rolling with the impact as she struck the ground below. She rose fluidly, brushing the pine needles from her clothes and hair as she checked her surroundings to make sure no one had seen. Ten minutes later, she stepped onto the six o’clock train out of town, gliding past the yawning station master with nary a second glance thrown her way, just another early morning passenger on her way into the city.

As the train pulled away, she heard police whistles sound and watched with disinterest as a group of uniformed officers rushed past the station. The train picked up speed as it left town, and soon enough the only thing she could see out the window was trees rushing by.

She leaned back in her seat and closed her eyes, mentally crossing another name off the steadily diminishing list; there were only a handful left, but Widowmaker couldn’t find it in herself to care.

Her lips curved downward in irritation, wondering why this one was different. It had been a good kill, a professional kill, a completely, entirely, _thoroughly_ boring kill. She’d hoped for at least some excitement, a challenge, the mere semblance of a thrill, anything besides the utter nothingness that filled the empty spot where her heart would be. If she could summon up the will for anything more than simmering resentment, she would hunt down the descendants of those who had cursed her to this bitter existence, undying yes, but unliving too, a mere thrall to whoever held the hunk of stone that had once been her heart.

_Seems we are both prisoners, you and I_.

Widowmaker bristled at Amélie's ghostly touch on her shoulder, leaving aside her dissatisfaction to fester another day. After all, what was one more day when she had already endured more than she could count?

“We are nothing alike,” she growled to the empty air of the train compartment, but there was no real bite to it. She let their head fall against the window, watching the countryside pass by with disinterest.

_...As you say_.

Widowmaker breathed in. Amélie breathed out. An uneasy rhythm, true, but a rhythm just the same.

**Author's Note:**

> Fair warning: I update super slowly, so bear with me. Anyways, hope ya'll enjoyed.


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